


First Night

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historicalock, Medieval AU, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-08-29 19:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8502139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Molly Hooper is marrying a man she despises in order to save her family. King William, known to his closest friends as "Sherlock", is being forced to wed the daughter of a man he despises in order to protect his kingdom. A chance meeting leads to a stolen kiss...and a stolen night together when Sherlock recklessly decides to exercise the royal 'right of the first night' with her. Will fate tear them apart or bring them back into one another's arms?





	1. Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Raelynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raelynn/gifts).



> Story inspired by Raelynn's story 'Jus Primae Noctis'. Summary inspired by the backs of millions of historical romance novels.

“Your majesty, where are you going?”

“Bored, John, just going for a stroll.” William, King of the British Isles, known as Sherlock to very few - including the man calling after him in such chastising tones - nodded his head toward a narrow deer track. “Don’t think we’ll have to worry about lurking assassins or outlaws on the Earl’s lands.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “The man’s villain enough on his own, others need not apply.”

“Is that any way to speak of your future father-in-law?” his guardsman - and dearest, nay _only_ , friend - asked, sounding rather scandalized. “The Earl’s support was key during the Moriarty rebellion, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Sherlock shot his friend an angry glare - the disgraced baron’s name was not to be spoken of, now that he was as dead as his attempted rebellion - but John simply ignored him, continuing the stroll the king had begun. Moving ahead of him, in fact, which Sherlock could not abide. “The Earl,” he snarled as he shoved his way past the shorter, solidly-built man, “is a calculating, greedy opportunist.”

“Just like every other nobleman in the realm,” John said placidly.

Sherlock could hear the grin in his voice but  ignored it. “The only reason I’m even _considering_ this match is because people won’t stop carping at me about my duty to produce an heir. An _heir_! Strewth, I’m not yet five-and-twenty, why the bloody hell do I need to be in such a rush to produce an _heir_?”

John’s silence was eloquent, his opinions on the subject already well known to the king - and entirely opposite to his own. The soldier and his wife Mary had already produced six offspring and were expecting a seventh after only nine years of marriage, which in Sherlock’s opinion more than made up for any perceived lack on his own part. But no, both John and Mary - an otherwise sensible, intelligent woman - seemed to actually believe that no man could be complete unless he had a wife and children underfoot. Even a king.

Sherlock bit back an annoyed curse. “Go back, John. Give me a half-hour to myself. We are in no danger here, and if we are, I can assure you I will take care of it.” Some devilish part of his nature made him add, “I hope I won’t have to threaten you into leaving.”

“Well, I think we’d both find _that_ embarrassing,” John said...but his footsteps halted. “A half hour and no more,” John said. “More than that and others will be wondering where you are.”

Sherlock gave a snort of derision and tugged the hood of his cloak over his head. Alone had always protected him, kept him safe; why couldn’t John see that?

Oh, he knew the answer, much as he disliked it: the fact that John was more than simply a guardsman, that he was a true and beloved friend, was proof that the maxim Sherlock had always lived by had long been proven wrong. Even Sir Philip of Anders was something of a friend now; although they had been at odds previously, his staunch support during the Moriarty rebellion had helped to sway others to the king’s side after his reputation had been savaged by that Irish upstart.

“Pah,” he muttered as he hastened his steps. Such sentimental thoughts would have his brother Mycroft scoffing in contempt. Good thing he was no longer alive to see his younger brother grown so soft-headed. Had he survived his last battle, then _he_ would be king and therefore the one plagued by people demanding he produce an heir, while Sherlock would be free to live a life of scientific endeavor, as he’d once dreamed. Free of the burden of the crown, free to wed or not at his own leisure, free to be...well, still rather constrained by being born into royalty, true. But far less constrained than his current unhappy circumstances. This small rebellion, as his party rested before making the final push to the Earl’s keep five miles hence, was as much as he would be allowed for the next fortnight, and he vowed to make the most of it.

He continued to push through the greenery, and soon found that the deer track he’d been following intersected with a wider trail, one obviously made by human traffic. He shielded his eyes and looked skyward, to judge direction, but the trees blocked his view of the sun and so he chose a direction at random. One way would lead to the river, the other to the small market town that marked the farthest boundaries of the Earl’s lands. Either way he would be away from the noise and confusion of his entourage, which included a party of the Earl’s own men, led by a surprisingly competent - and even more surprisingly, honest! - Sheriff. Gavin, was it? Or Geoffrey?

No matter. The problem was not that he’d been asked to add the Earl’s Sheriff - Lestrade, he remembered the surname at least! - to his entourage, but that he’d been required to have an entourage in the first place. He’d wanted to do without such foolishness altogether, traveling alone with John and perhaps two or three other soldiers to act as bodyguards, but had been dissuaded by his so-called advisors. A king needed to make an impression, a grand entrance: the Earl of Magnussen needed to be subtly (or not so subtly) reminded that his daughter was being granted an extraordinary honor in being courted by the king.

She was reported to be a great beauty, Lady Janine, but he had no interest in beauty. If she’d had a reputation for scholarship, now that might be worth pursuing. But no: she was beautiful, she was an accomplished musician, she embroidered, she was sweet-tempered and modest...in a word, _boring_. This meeting, ostensibly a simple visit for the autumn hunt, was to allow him to see if he could stand being in the same room with the girl for more than a few minute's time - and to measure the Earl’s reaction should the king _not_ tender an offer by the fortnight’s end.

Shaking his head to rid his mind of such gloomy thoughts, Sherlock continued down the rutted path, absently deducing that he’d selected the direction leading to the river, and pretended he was here entirely of his own free will.

**oOo**

She’d fled the bustle and noise of the day, hiding herself away by the riverside with one of her father’s treasured medical treatises. This was truly her last taste of freedom, for tonight she would be married. Married unwillingly to a fat, balding man twice her age. Not that those mere physical features were the worst of it: no, it was his unpleasant nature that made him so repugnant to her, as well as the fact that he held her family’s tenuous future in the palms of his sweaty, greasy hands.

She shuddered at the thought of those hands touching her, groping her as he’d tried to do only this morn. Thank Jesu her mother had found them before he’d done more than paw at her breast and force a garlicky kiss upon her unwilling lips.

“Oh Papa,” Molly whispered as she she dropped her forehead to her knees in despair, “how could you die and leave us in such a state?” A tear dripped onto the cover of the precious volume, and she hastily mopped it up with the sleeve of her gown. She knew she should be more careful with her wedding dress, the one her mother had so painstakingly embroidered for the ceremony to take place only a few short hours from now, but couldn’t bring herself to care.

She thought wistfully of how different things would be had her dear Papa survived the illness that had taken him from them only a month ago. In another lord’s territories, she might have pled her family’s cause, but the Earl was a cold, arrogant man who cared nothing for those who claimed his protection by law. His daughter was nearly as bad - a vain, spiteful woman who thought only of herself, or so Molly had heard from more than one source. In fairness she’d never encountered either of them personally, but people whose word she trusted had confirmed the rumors, sadly.

People like Sheriff Gregory Lestrade, who’d befriended their family when they’d first returned to her mother’s childhood home. He, at least, was a kind and decent human being, who had mourned her father’s death with them, having become a dear friend to them all. If he were not away in London, if he’d been in Fitton when Papa died, surely he would have taken them in. And if he’d asked if of her, then aye, she would have gladly married him for all the difference in their ages. But it was too late now for such fancies. Far, far too late. Even if he was due to return this night, as rumor had it, Molly had already given her word.

She would marry Culverton Smith. The merchant owned the lease on their humble cottage, and had been on their doorstep barely days after Nathaniel Hooper had been laid to rest in the churchyard. His proposal had been straightforward: if Molly wed him, he wouldn’t turn her mother and two younger brothers out of the only home they’d known for the past six years. And she’d agreed, even against her mother’s protests.

Tonight, she would become a bride, no matter how loathsome she might find her groom, and resolved to be a dutiful wife to him. But she would hold these few precious hours of her remaining freedom close to her, enjoy the peace and quiet, re-read some of her favorite passages...

“Paracelsus, eh? Interesting choice in reading matter.”

Her head whipped up a the sound of that unfamiliar, cultured voice. She stared at the stranger standing - nay, _towering_ \- over her and scrambled to her feet even though her eyes were still drinking him in. He was tall, yes, and his voice was a deep baritone that held authority in it. He was quite handsome from what she could see of his features beneath the hood that shadowed his face. She could see a hint of dark curls falling over a high brow (denoting intelligence, part of her mind noted, as if his educated accent and recognition of her book hadn’t already told her that); deep blue (green?) eyes; full, sensuous lips...her own lips parted in a gasp as she clutched her book to her chest. “My pardon, my lord, I-I did not hear your approach.”

He said nothing, simply continued to study her - or was it the tome in her hands he bore such an interest in? In her nervousness and uncertainty - for one must always be uncertain where the nobility were concerned, life as one of Sir Charles’ vassals had taught her that - she continued to babble. “Have, have you arrived in the company of Sheriff Lestrade?”

“I have indeed,” he replied with a slight bow of his head, his courtesy helping set her somewhat at ease. “I felt the need of solitude, and by your presence here at the riverside, rather than back in the town preparing for your wedding, I deduce that you felt in need of the same.”

She gaped at him anew, quickly snapping her mouth shut as he smirked down at her. Even standing she barely came to his collar, and she wondered incongruously how much she would have to stretch in order to reach his mouth with hers. Coloring slightly at the wayward cast of her thoughts, she forced herself to focus on his words instead. “How did you know ‘tis my wedding day?” she asked, then exclaimed: “Oh!” before he could answer, if such were his intent. “My gown, yes? Too fine for everyday wear, of course!”

He looked at her with a wondering expression in his cat-like eyes. “Can it be? A woman with a brain in such a rustic setting?”

She bristled at his words, sensing mockery, but he held out a richly gloved hand in a placating gesture. “Nay, take no offense, my lady, for I assure you I mean none. I am simply astounded to find someone with your obvious intelligence and education here, rather than in London, where I perceive you once lived - as a child, yes? But your family suffered a reduction in fortunes and was forced to relocate...was it your father or your mother who came originally from Fitton? And did your father pass away here or in London?”

“My mother,” Molly replied, feeling somewhat dizzied by the quick succession of observations and questions. “That is, my mother’s people were from Fitton, and my father was taken from us by illness only last month.”

“A wedding coming so quickly after a funeral generally means one of two - nay, three - things,” he said. “A babe on the way - of which you show no signs - true love,” his lip curled slightly, which told her his feelings on the subject, “or dire necessity.”

“I will not allow my family to suffer when I am able to protect them,” Molly said, rather more fiercely than she’d intended. But it was the truth, and so far this remarkable stranger had showed no signs of anger or impatience at her responses to his odd questions. Nor had he shown any signs that he might have nefarious intentions toward her. Of course, she had yet to try to escape his company, and that thought brought a hint of fear; would he stop her did she try to leave him, would she suffer the fate that far too many maids did when noblemen caught them alone and unprotected?

If he did so choose, there would be aught she might do to stop him; he wore a sheathed sword and dagger at his hip, and light armor that she could glimpse beneath the heavy cloak. Of course, he would need to use none of those against her undefended self; all he would need would be his own strength, the heaviness of his body (lean and well-formed though it was), one of those large hands slapped over her mouth to still any screams for help…

Unsure if she was warning herself against the possible danger he represented or actively hoping he might make such an attempt, Molly bit her lip and ducked her head respectfully. “I have taken far too much of your time, my lord,” she murmured, plucking nervously at the fabric of her skirt. “Pray forgive me, but I must return to the town. My mother will be worried.”

He moved aside, and she made as if to pass him when she felt his hand catch at her arm, halting her in her steps. Her heart beat fast in her chest, and she gasped as she turned to face him. “M-my lord?”

He peered down at her, lowering his face until they were nearly eye-to-eye. “You are marrying a man you do not love, one I deduce is much older than you. You have resigned yourself to a life of duty and misery in equal measure, in order to protect the people you _do_ love. I find that...admirable.” He said the word as if it surprised him to be admitting such a thing. “With your leave, I would very much like to kiss the bride.”

She gaped up at him, shocked by so bold a request...but not at all loath to grant permission to him. His lips quirked up in a small smile as she hesitated. “I do not seek to brag, but I can promise you a pleasant experience.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, well and truly throwing caution to the wind. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands, and she tilted her head as he leaned closer. When his lips met hers she gasped at how soft they felt, how warm, then gasped again as she felt the tip of his tongue against her mouth. Instinct guided her; she opened her mouth, granting him fuller access, and nearly dropped her book as dizziness overtook her. His tongue was in her mouth, so lewd and filthy, yet she enjoyed it as no proper maiden should. Indeed, it was as if his mouth had ignited a hitherto unknown fire within her: her cheeks were flushed, her eyes tightly shut and a flash of heat spread out from her belly to her chest, down her arms and legs until it was as if her entire body was aflame.

The sound of a throat being cleared somewhere behind them brought her back to reality; with a gasp, she released her hold on the stranger and stepped away from him. There was another stranger nearby, this one clearly a soldier, wearing a mildly disapproving expression on his face. “Your…” he started to say, then stopped at the fierce glare from the man Molly had just been kissing.

The newcomer cleared his throat again. “You’re...wanted back at the camp,” he said. Which was obviously _not_ what he’d been about to say, but she was too mortified at having been caught kissing a strange man like a wanton strumpet to wonder at what he _had_ intended to say. Murmuring a quick “Your pardon, my lords,” she hurried back onto the path to town, raising her trailing skirts so that she might more quickly put this strange (lovely) interlude behind her.


	2. A Rash Decision

Sherlock stared after the girl - nay, the woman - he’d so impulsively kissed, then bestowed an annoyed glare on John. “Your timing, John Watson…”

“Is impeccable, your majesty,” his friend interrupted him with a hint of sternness. “You asked for a half-hour, and I gave you that, although I must admit to being somewhat taken aback at finding you kissing a lass.” He raised an eyebrow, an implicit request for details that Sherlock was entirely lacking in desire to share.

“I presume it’s time for us to return to the camp,” he grumbled as he shoved the hood off his head. His crown had tilted back on his head at some point and he straightened it, carefully positioning it so that it rested like the cursed golden head-manacle that it was on his brow. “I suppose they’re finally ready to travel the last five miles to Appledore Keep?”

John nodded, waiting courteously for Sherlock to fall into step next to him as they retraced their steps back to the game trail they’d followed. Neither spoke for the remainder of the journey, and Sherlock tried in vain not to think of the woman he’d kissed.

He rarely acted so impulsively as he had this very afternoon. He didn’t even know her name, but what did it matter? He would never see her again. She would marry the blackguard who’d threatened her family in some manner, an unpleasant fate for anyone, but that was the way of the world, or so he’d always been told. Even if he wanted to find some way to help her, in this matter his hands were tied; she was one of Magnussen’s vassals and any attempts to come to her aid would be viewed with suspicion by the older man. And loath though he was to admit it, Sherlock needed this alliance, did he wish to retain his throne.

And although a large part of him wished for nothing more than to be freed of the burden of rulership, he would not disgrace the memory of his parents or brother by running away from his responsibilities, no matter how heavily they weighed.

His mind returned to its contemplation of the lass he’d kissed. Her eyes had been a deep, warm brown, brimming with intelligence, and she had been remarkably unafraid of him. Oh, it was obvious she had no idea who he actually was, but she should have been wary of any strange nobleman approaching her when she was alone. He smiled as he remembered how soft and warm her lips had been, how she’d not pulled away when his tongue had flicked against her sweet, sweet mouth...and if John had not made an appearance, he might very well have been tempted to do more than simply kiss her.

Such brooding, uncomfortable thoughts plagued him for the rest of the journey to Appledore, and were only chased away by the hullabaloo of their arrival. All the usual pomp and circumstance attended that arrival, including the presentation of the daughter. She’d curtsied deeply upon her introduction, and he’d discovered she was at least superficially everything he’d been told she was: beautiful, soft-spoken, well-mannered...and just as boring as he’d expected. 

As the afternoon progressed he discovered more about her, and not all of it to her credit. Oh, she was clever enough, but it was clear she had no interest in anything other than bettering her already-elevated station in life. The idea of being married to her, of making her his queen, was abhorrent to him, but he could see how the wind blew: he didn’t need a fortnight to determine that Charles Magnussen would withdraw his support and likely find a way to clandestinely fund a new rebellion if his daughter was rejected.

Damnation. Sherlock had hoped to extricate himself from this visit without making any such promises. Still, he thought darkly as he smiled and nodded his way through the afternoon, if he was to be chained for life to a woman he didn’t want, he would at least take one night for himself with one that he did.

He rose abruptly from the table at the head of the great hall, the others gathered there in his honor doing the same. With yet another false smile offered through gritted teeth, he prayed the indulgence of them all, citing his weariness from the week’s travel he’d just endured. Magnussen gave him a hard stare, but only offered up his hope that the king would be fully recovered by the next day’s hunt.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Sherlock assured him with an inward grimace. At least the hunt was scheduled for the afternoon rather than the morning. Then he made his exit, feeling Magnussen’s poisonous gaze on his back until he and John had left the great hall far behind them.

He endured the presence of the servant girl tasked with leading him to his chambers, and dismissed her in spite of her obvious willingness to stay and tend to him -- both in bed and out, doubtless. He likewise dismissed his valet Wiggins, who seemed quite eager to further make the acquaintance of the young woman. He scurried off after her without a backward glance, clearly pleased that his duties would not be required until the next day.

He felt John Watson’s eye on him and turned to face him. “Yes, John, my desire for an early retirement was a ruse. I require your assistance in a matter of some delicacy.”

John’s brow lowered apprehensively. “Pray tell me you you’re not planning some foolish escapade, majesty.”

Sherlock gave him his most disarming smile. “When have you ever known me to waste my time on foolish escapades, John?” Clapping the other man heartily on the shoulder, he added, “All my escapades are well thought out and meticulously planned.”

Ignoring John’s now-skeptical expression, he began the arduous process of removing the many layers of his formal garb. “And what is this ‘meticulously planned’ escapade, then?” John asked with a long-suffering sigh.

“I need you to go into Fitton,” Sherlock said as he loosened his belt and dropped it to the floor. “The young bride we met this afternoon, bring her to me.”

John gawped at him for a long moment, clearly struggling to reconcile what he’d just heard his king say against what he meant by those words. “Forgive me, my lord, but did you just ask me to kidnap a bride away from her own wedding?”

“Ordered, not asked, but yes, that is exactly what I want you to do.” Before John could voice the next protest so obvious in his eyes, Sherlock added, “She’s a bartered bride sacrificing her future happiness for the protection of her family, marrying someone she does not and never will love for the greater good.” He cocked a sardonic eyebrow at his trusted friend. “Does that sound at all familiar to you? Trust me, John, she’ll not protest, or not mean a word of it if she does. And this--” he pried a gem-encrusted ring from his finger and tossed it to the other man “--will more than make up for any disaccommodation on the part of the disgruntled bridegroom. He’s a greedy man, and my claiming of this royal right will be trumpeted by him as a sign of favor. Especially if I send his less than pristine bride back to him with a pouch full of gold.”

“If you wished to purchase her favors, why not simply offer her the gold when you gave her that less-than-chaste farewell kiss?” John asked, arms folded across his chest and brow lowered in disapproval. “Or pay off her family’s debt to the merchant -- yes, I heard the gossip in town -- and take your ‘reward’ then?”

“Because she’s not a whore, and would have refused me under those circumstances,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Besides, at the time, I did not find myself trapped into a marriage I had fully expected to avoid. I fear I underestimated the extent of Magnussen’s ambitions,” he muttered angrily as he began to pace an agitated circle from chamber door to window to bed and back again. He gave the raised steps of the curtained, velvet-covered bed a baleful glare before looking back at John, whose expression had finally altered into one more approaching sympathy rather than condemnation.

Sherlock finished up his latest circuit of the room, coming to a direct stop in front of the other man and laying a hand on his shoulder. “We both enter into loveless matches,” he said softly, willing his friend to understand. “Should we not take our pleasure from one another for just one night, before duty calls us away? She did not stay passive when I kissed her, John, surely you saw that I was not forcing her, that she was as impassioned by the kiss as I was!” 

When John nodded reluctant agreement, Sherlock felt a surge of excitement clench his stomach. With that single movement, his friend signalled his willingness to do as his king had commanded. “I’ll fetch her,” he said, finally tucking the ring into the small leather pouch hanging from his belt. “No doubt she’ll be frightened, but I shall do my best to reassure her that you mean her no harm by exercising your right of the first night.” He paused, staring hard at his king, who had gone very still. With a resigned sigh, John said, “I’m not going at all, am I.”

Sherlock grinned and shook his head; the plan he’d just come up with far superior to the one he’d originally conceived. “No, John, you’re not. But ready your horse; I shall need use of it.” With those words, the king turned on his heel and began rushing about, madly pulling off the heavy weight of his robes and rummaging in his trunks for the clothes he’d been wearing when he first encountered the young bride-to-be in Fitton.

She’d responded to his kiss with a passion that had startled and pleased him; would she come unwillingly when he fetched her, or would she be relieved that her lifetime submission to the man she’d been forced to marry would be postponed for another night?

Welladay, he’d know soon enough. He nodded distractedly when John asked if he’d like his ring back, then shook his head, plucking all but one from his fingers and dumping them like so many worthless pebbles on the small stool sat next to his baggage. 

Within minutes he was ready to go, shrugging into his most travel-stained cloak and more than satisfied with the minimal disguise he’d donned. He started to toss his hated crown into the open trunk from which various pieces of discarded clothing now hung, then changed his mind and carefully laid it on the highest of the three steps leading up to his bed. With a nod of satisfaction, he turned to John. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together briskly, “I’ll be off. I’ve already memorized the route from the servant’s staircase to this room, when I insisted on that ‘little tour’ upon our arrival, and am confident I shall both leave and arrive unseen by our host.”

“And if any of the servants whisper of your activities to Magnussen? For surely you’ll not be able to completely avoid notice by them,” John said disapprovingly. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Surely you don’t think that comely young maiden who escorted us here was offering her services to me without his lordship’s knowledge and approval? Nay, tis in his best interests to keep me happy, any appetites I might have well fed -- the carrot, if you like, before he subtly applies the stick. As long as this royal visit ends with a royal engagement, he won’t care what I do in the meantime.”

John continued to murmur protests and warnings, all of which Sherlock ignored as he sent him off to prepare his horse. All he could think about was the desperation he was feeling, the sense of being trapped -- and how very much he wanted to steal this one night for himself and someone who found herself in exactly the same situation.

Her enthusiasm for his embrace hadn’t been feigned; he’d seen the dark expansion of her pupils, heard her breath hitch, seen the way she’d swayed toward him. No, he was not alone in his desire, and soon they would be able to quench their mutual passion.


	3. The Bartered Bride

Molly smiled and smiled and smiled yet again, feeling as if her lips would soon fall from her face but knowing what was expected of her. Even though all in attendance knew of the true circumstances of her wedding to Master Culverton Smith, they expected exactly what she was giving them all: the appearance of a happy bride who was preparing for a new life, the same life so many other women in her station in life would welcome.

Welcome, or resign themselves to. Molly bit back a melancholy sigh as she watched her new husband sitting at the head of the trestle table that had been set up for the bridal party, while she sat with her mother and the other married women of the village and endured their whispered advice about her wedding night.

A night which was rapidly approaching. 

A night which she was dreading, most ardently.

The thunder of approaching hoof beats interrupted her thoughts, drowning out the cheerful music being played on tambor and flute. The musicians stopped to stare at the newcomer along with everyone else. Molly and her wedding-night advisors rose to their feet to gawp and stare at the sight of a strange nobleman bringing his coal-black steed to a dramatic stop mere feet from the wooden trestle table at which her new husband still sat with his cronies, a mug of ale halfway to his lips and an expression of shock on his face.

Molly started to move closer, but her mother clutched her sleeve and shook her head, wordlessly forbidding her to move forward. Still in the habit of obedience, Molly remained still, her straining eyes fixed on the cloaked figure now swinging with ease from the saddle and alighting on the ground. “Master Culverton Smith?” she heard him say, and gasped, feeling the color drain from her cheeks as she recognized the man’s deep, imperious voice.

It was  _ him _ , the man from the early afternoon, the one whom she’d allowed to kiss her. She had no need of seeing his face, for that voice was burned into her very soul. What was he doing here, now? Why had he come? Had he come - nay, he could not possibly have come for her! And if he had, why, he was too late; she was already wed.

These confused thoughts and more raced through her mind as her new husband slowly lowered his tankard and rose to his far-from-impressive height. “I am Master Culverton Smith, aye,” he replied with an obsequious bow as he swept his hat from his head. “To what do I owe the honor, my lord?”

“I am here on the king’s business,” was the reply, and Molly’s heart sank. Foolish girl, to have hoped this was on her behalf. “Forgive the intrusion, but it is a matter of some urgency.” Then he turned his head and looked squarely at her before gesturing for Master Smith to join him away from the others.

As soon as they vanished from view the wedding party and celebrants all began speaking in hushed tones, the sole topic of speculation being the odd meeting between nobleman and merchant. Were Smith to be arrested for some wrongdoing, surely Sheriff Lestrade and his men would have been dispatched, rather than the handsome stranger from Londontown.

A few worrisome minutes later her husband (she shuddered at the thought) strode into the center of the clearing. “I thank you all for joining in the festivities,” he said in that pompous manner he had, “but I pray your indulgence and ask that you all return home. All is well,” he hastened to assure them as murmurs of consternation arose from the small group. “All is well, but the king’s business is one I must attend to - myself and my lovely bride.” He smiled and gestured for Molly to join him. 

After a last, confused glance at her mother - who looked equally confused - Molly stepped away from the other woman, walking to her husband and laying her hand in his. His smile never faltered, but there was something about it that she misliked, something dark that set her heart to pounding and clenched her stomach with sudden fear. Whatever the king’s business was, it was surely to her husband’s profit, else he’d not be so obviously pleased...but somehow she feared what was to come.

As the revelers returned to their homes - her mother and brothers remaining to mind the bonfire, which had hours left before it could be safely doused - she and her husband joined the nobleman, who was waiting with ill-concealed impatience in the darkness beyond the light of the bonfire and the few torches that had been lit. “You agree, then?” he said as Molly and Smith came to a stop before him. 

“It is the king’s command,” her husband said. “How could I, a humble merchant, disobey?” He turned to Molly, raising her hands up and kissing them one at a time. She held back her shudder of distaste, just as she had when he’d placed his mouth on hers at the conclusion of their wedding ceremony, merely bobbed her head in acknowledgement.

Instead of releasing her, Culverton led her to the other man, and placed her hands in his. “She is the king’s for the night,” she heard him say through the sudden rushing of blood in her ears. “And for the day, to be returned to me tomorrow night.”

“I-I- what means this, my lord?” Molly stammered out, looking between her husband and the nobleman in confusion. “I am to go to meet the king? For what purpose?”

Her husband reached into his belt and pulled out a gem-encrusted ring that looked to be made of solid gold. “Why, the king has seen your beauty, my dear, and has claimed the right of  _ jus prima noctis _ . And this is our compensation.”

Molly had believed herself incapable of being further shocked by anything that happened in her life, but her husband’s words, condemning her to a night of submission to a man she’d never seen, one who might well be worse than the devil she knew (God forgive her the blasphemy), sent a cold chill down her spine she could do nothing to disguise. “I am to be traded for a mere ring like a, a sack of grain?” she hissed, trying to pull her hands away from the king’s messenger. Who refused to allow her go, yet continued to say nothing.

“Why no, my dearest, of course not!” Culverton sounded indignant. He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Though she twisted her head away in disgust, she could move no further with her hands still trapped. “If his majesty finds your company pleasing, then he’s likely to give you one as well, to demonstrate his gratitude.” His voice turned hard, and he reached up to grip her chin in his hand, staring balefully at her. “So I expect you to work very, very hard to please him, else I find reason to turn your mother and brothers out of their home after all.

She yanked her head away, utterly repulsed by his grasping, greedy nature, more than horrified that she was to be tied to this man for the rest of her life. 

Suddenly the idea of her virginity being bartered away to the king seemed much the lesser of the two evils.

Raising her head, she looked up at the man holding her hands in his. “I’m ready for you to take me, my lord.”

She thought she saw him smile, but it was so fleeting that she thought perhaps she’d only imagined it. He nodded curtly at her husband, then released her hands and mounted his horse. Reaching down to her, she placed her hand back in his grasp and allowed him to lift her so she was riding pillion, her arms wrapped securely around his waist.

She did not look back even once. 


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for waiting so patiently for this, and thank you to lilsherlockian1975 for looking the chapter over and assuring me it wasn't utter garbage. An additional thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews, they are always appreciated!

Molly wrapped her hands around her handsome escort’s waist as the horse started off at a brisk trot. She knew their pace would slow as night continued to fall, and found herself praying for the sun to set even faster, putting off her fate that much longer.

The silence wore on her, and after the village had disappeared from sight, she risked a question. “Might I ask your name?”

“Sherlock,” he replied shortly, not bothering to turn around.

“Sir Sherlock, can you tell me…”

“Just Sherlock,” he corrected her, still without turning. “I would prefer you call me by that name in private.”

“Sherlock,” she murmured, acquiescing to his request - nay, his command. “If you wish, you may call me Molly.” She had no desire to hear her married name coming from his lips.

“Molly,” he acknowledged.

Hearing her name in that deep baritone brought a blush to her cheeks and a warmth to her nether regions utterly inappropriate to the circumstances. She was pleased that the semi-darkness and her position behind him helped hide her reaction. What was it about this stranger, this nobleman, that affected her so strongly? Her blush burned hotter as she recalled the feel of his lips against hers, and she ducked her head in confusion.

She felt rather than heard the sigh he gave before he spoke again. “Out with it. I can practically feel your need to ask me.”

She longed to ask how he felt about bringing her to another man’s bed, but lacked the courage to do so. Instead she asked the other question that troubled her. “Can you tell me…how is it the king came to ask for me? Did - did you or your liegeman tell him of my situation, that I was being forced to wed? Is that why he...”

“Like yourself, the king faces a coerced marriage,” Sherlock replied in clipped tones. “He will do his duty, as you have done yours, but wishes a single night for himself before facing that duty. It is selfish of him, but then, he is a selfish man - but not,” he added, “a cruel man. You will not be ill-used, Molly, I can promise you that much. If the night goes as he hopes it will, then you will both find your pleasure.”

Molly’s blush only deepened at his assertions, but felt emboldened to ask another question. “Have you done this for him before, then?”

“The king has never done anything like this before,” Sherlock replied, his tone even shorter.

Perhaps he was becoming irritated with her, but she needed to know more, to understand why she’d been chosen, and so she pressed on. “Surely it would have been easier to arrange an assignation with someone in Lord Magnussen’s household? Why would His Majesty go to so much trouble for a night with someone like me when he could surely have any woman he wanted? I’m nobody, I don’t count--”

She let out a startled gasp as he turned, finally, to face her. The angle of the sun as it set behind them gave his eyes a strange glitter, as if molten fire smouldered in their blue-green depths. “The king’s reasons are his own, but I can assure you that he did not choose to exercise this ancient right lightly.”

A feeling of warmth suffused her body, and Molly found herself smiling in spite of her continued reservations. She rested her head against his back and spent the remainder of the ride to Appledore Keep in silence, reassured by Sherlock’s words even though he’d said nothing of what she might expect at the king’s hands - and in his bed. Odd though it seemed, she found she trusted her escort and by extension, King William. At the very least, she silently counseled herself, she would not be giving up her most precious commodity to her odious husband. The thought of lying with him after she’d been returned from Appledore twisted her stomach, and she resolved not to allow the matter to trouble her mind until her return to Fitton.

**oOo**

The same man who’d interrupted their kiss back at the river met them behind the stables, catching hold of the steed’s reins after helping her to dismount. He and Sherlock exchanged quiet words while she adjusted her gown, feeling self-conscious now that it was no longer just the two of them.

“Come,” Sherlock said abruptly, wrapping the other man’s cloak about her shoulders and raising the hood so that her head was covered. “Remain silent until we’re behind closed doors.”

Molly nodded, her heart knocking at her ribcage and a slight tremble to her form now that they had arrived. There was the sound of merriment from the direction of the Great Hall, but they passed no one, not even servants, as they slipped up a narrow staircase and down deserted corridors.

Sherlock paused before the door to what she presumed was the king’s bedchamber, and her trembling increased. Although she thought she’d fully resigned herself to her fate, now that the moment was at hand she found herself half-wishing she could simply flee into the night. Then the door was open and Sherlock was ushering her inside, and all she could do was hold her head high as she stepped into the room.

She looked around apprehensively, jumping a little as she heard the door slam shut behind her. Expecting Sherlock to have left, she was surprised when she turned and saw him locking the door from inside the sumptuous chamber. “Is- is His Majesty...in?” she half-whispered as she lowered the hood to her shoulders.

“Yes, His Majesty is in...front of you,” was Sherlock’s incomprehensible reply.

Molly stared up at him, then stumbled back a step, nearly tripping on the folds of her borrowed cloak as his words sank in. “I, I don’t understand, are you jesting?”

He shook his head, stripped off his gloves and dropped them onto the floor. “Sadly, no, although I often wish it were simply an elaborate prank being played on me. That one day my brother might simply stroll into the throne room and proclaim his absence a test of my suitability to rule in his place, should he never produce an heir.”

Molly continued to stare at him as he moved past her. He stopped near the bed, reaching down to pluck something up. He held it for a moment, looking down, then turned to face her. Her eyes widened as he carefully placed a golden crown upon his head, proof that he was, indeed, who he claimed to be - for no nobleman, no matter how highly placed, would dare such a blasphemy.

“You’re the king,” Molly said, speaking through numb lips. “You’re King William.”

“I am, much to my sorrow,” he confirmed, moving towards her. He stopped directly in front of her, so close she was forced to tilt her head in order to meet his gaze, still too stunned to recall that she should be doing no such thing. “But I am also a man,” he added lowly, reaching out to tug at the strings holding the cloak closed at her throat. The heavy garment immediately fell to the floor, and his hands landed gently on her shoulders. “A man who wants you as much, I do hope, as you want me.”

God forgive her, but she did want him. Discovering his true identity had been a shock, but now the shock was wearing off, leaving her feeling lightheaded and a little reckless. The man who’d tendered her first kiss was the same man who wanted her for himself, not as a prize to show off or out of duty. A man who could have any woman he wanted, but had chosen her. “Are you truly being forced to wed?” she whispered as his hands moved down her arms.

“The Earl’s daughter,” he replied bitterly. “But I wish to speak of her as much as you wish to speak of your new husband. This night is about us. Let us abandon all thought of any others, shall we? Tonight we are simply Sherlock and Molly.”

She nodded, reaching up hesitantly to lay her hands on his chest. She felt his breath hitch, and then his mouth was covering hers in a hard kiss that tasted of equal parts passion and desperation. He pulled her against his lean form, and she gasped at the feel of his arousal against her hip.

She might still be virgin, but she was hardly ignorant of the ways of a man with a maid. Even without the whispered advice and warnings of her mother and the other village matrons from earlier, she’d known - or thought she’d known - what to expect. What country girl didn’t, having seen the bulls and cows, the rams and ewes, even the cockerels and hens during spring?

From what she’d seen and been told, it was all about the male’s pleasure. As Sherlock continued to kiss her, coaxing a warmth from her body she’d never experienced, those whispered warnings came back to her in jumbled snatches: _lie back and submit, do your wifely duty, endure the pain, it will be over afore you know it..._

None of them spoke of being kissed with the fury of a thunderstorm, or being held so tightly that she was gasping for breath. None of them spoke of how a man could bring her entire body to life simply by kissing the side of her neck, by sliding his hands down so that they rested on the curve of her bottom, that the feel of his own arousal could cause hers to flare so strongly she thought she might fall into a faint.

Her mind returned immediately to the present when she felt Sherlock tug at the ties on the back of her wedding dress. She wondered if she dared remove his clothing as well, and startled a bit at the dark chuckle he uttered as he pulled his mouth from hers.

“Nothing is forbidden tonight, Molly,” he rumbled, seeming to read her very thoughts. He removed his hands from her ties, reaching around to grasp her wrists and physically sliding her hands down until they rested on his belt. “Nothing.”

With a courage she’d never felt before, heart beating rabbit-fast, she acceded to his unspoken request, unfastening the leather belt, allowing it to drop to the richly carpeted floor. Her cheeks reddened as they undressed one another. His eyes never left hers, not until they both stood naked in the candlelight. He moved back one deliberate step, reaching out for her hands, which she timidly placed in his, and then his gaze swept her from head to foot and back again.

She closed her eyes, fearful that he would find something to criticize, that her unclothed form might disgust him somehow, that he would suddenly order her from his chambers and back to her loathsome husband.

“Look at me, Molly,” he commanded - and aye, that was the correct word, for it was no request. Her eyes opened reluctantly, meeting his gaze and then widening at the raw desire she saw reflected in those blue-green orbs. “Tonight there is no one else,” he said, still in that commanding voice, a deep thrum that seemed to vibrate through her very soul. “Only Molly and Sherlock, did I not tell you that already?”

His tone demanded an answer. “Aye, you did,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze, still fretting that she might somehow disappoint him.

Her eyes drifted downwards, finally taking in his naked form, and she sucked in a breath at the sight of his manhood standing proud before her. “Sherlock,” she said when she could speak, her voice a low, needy rasp that sound foreign to her ears.

As if her words were a signal he’d been awaiting, he swept her into his arms and captured her lips in an impassioned kiss. Moments later her remaining clothing was on the floor along with his, and her blushes colored both her face and chest as he rained further kisses upon her bare flesh. She squealed with surprise when he lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the royally appointed bed that dominated the room.

His feet seemed barely to touch the wooden treads of the steps leading up to that bed, but he lowered Molly carefully to the fur-covered surface. As soon as her head came to rest on the low pile of pillows he crawled toward her, his expression taking on an intense aspect that had her heart pounding in her chest. “I wonder if you taste as delectable as you look,” he purred, leaning over her.

Greatly daring, Molly reached up and stroked the dark curls brushing his forehead. “I am yours, my lord,” she whispered. “Do with me what you will.” When his brow lowered in a frown, she hastened to correct herself. “Sherlock. Please, Sherlock.”

Although she was unsure what she was asking of him, what she was giving permission for him to do, she knew she couldn’t possibly regret it. And so it proved when he lowered his head to kiss her, then began a slow but deliciously steady descent down her body with his mouth. Her hands he held above her head, firmly but not painfully, and a tingle that began twixt her nethers made its way through every part of her body, translating itself into a need to make some sort of sound immediately his mouth closed over her left nipple. “Oh,” she gasped out, fingers curling and hips shifting in need of...something. Him.

He quickly obliged her by lowering his body so that his manhood rested in the cradle of her thighs. It was a sensation like nothing Molly had ever experienced...but it was nothing compared to what the rest of the night held for them.


	5. La Petite Mort

As the king, William Sherlock Scott Holmes certainly had his pick of willing women to share his bed and body. Aye, and men, too, had he ever been so inclined. He’d been thus favored even before he gained that title, when he was only Prince William, the younger brother of the heir presumptive, Edward George Mycroft Holmes. Did he desire someone in his bed, all he’d ever had to do was crook his littlest finger or slant his eyebrow just so, and the wenches were practically throwing themselves at him.

It was partially because of that over-eagerness - based mainly on his status and looks - that he so seldom indulged in carnal relations. It became much the same thing after a while - grunting bodies slamming together, pooling in sweat, and for what? A few moments release before the frustrations began once again building in his body. It interfered with his more intellectual pursuits and so, after a time, he stopped crooking his finger or slanting his eyebrow altogether.

It had been, he realized as he kissed his way down Molly’s sweet, compliant body, a good three years since he’d tasted a woman. And for Molly, well, judging by her surprised, wary expression when he glanced up at her...it had not been something she’d been expecting him to do. Did she even know what he intended? Nay, for her brow was puckered in an uncomprehending frown.

He smiled darkly up at her, well pleased that he would be the one to teach her this pleasure.

She drew a sharp breath when his questing mouth moved from the undersides of her breasts to her soft belly, and thence to the tops of her thighs. He felt her body tense beneath his lips, and ran soothing hands up her legs, easing them further apart that he might better fit himself between them. Her fingers were tugging nervously at the soft fur bedcovers and her expression, when he chanced to meet her gaze, was still wary but she managed to return his smile before he wrapped his hands round her thighs and lowered his mouth to the seat of her virginity.

A seat well fit for a king, was his last thought for many long, blissful moments.

**oOo**

Molly gasped as Sherlock placed his face between her legs, and gasped again when she felt the wet heat of his tongue on her quinny. He was holding her thighs in his hands, kneading the plump flesh in time with his questing tongue. _This feels so good, it must surely be a sin,_ she thought through a growing haze of pleasure. When the swipes of his tongue turned to gentle suckling, she arched her back as though struck by lightning, letting out a strangled moan and digging her fingers ever tighter into the furs upon which they lay.

Within moments she felt a coiling heat in her belly, as if the lightning had ignited a fire deep within her womb. Her moans became sharp cries, and somehow her hands found their way to Sherlock’s dark curls. She barely noted when her fingers dislodged the golden circlet he wore, only that the sounds he made as she tugged at his hair sent her spiraling ever deeper out of control.

Gradually she came back to herself, blinking entirely unexpected tears from her eyes. “You’re crying, why are you crying?” Sherlock demanded, peering anxiously at her. He was no longer betwixt her legs, instead kneeling next to her with one hand hovering over her belly as if he were suddenly afeared to touch her.

“It was as if my very soul had been pulled from my body,” she confessed, seeking how best to describe the incredible sensations he’d wrung from her willing flesh with only the touch of his mouth. “Never have I been so, so _transported_.”

“Pish, twas only _la petite mort_ , the ‘little death’,” he said lightly as he wiped her tears away with his thumbs. “Have you never experience such? Now _that_ is a pity.”

His words only served to further prime the pump; more tears flowed even as he kissed them away, the soft press of his lips on her flesh seeming to shiver through her entire body. Feeling foolish and somehow lessened in his eyes, she sought to turn her head away, but he wouldn’t allow it, holding her face in the cradle of his hands as he said, “I vow, Molly, never have my ears heard sweeter words.”

He sought her mouth with his again, coaxing a gentle kiss from her. When he came to rest atop her, his manhood once again pressed to her center, she found the courage to encircle his shoulders with her arms, deepening the kiss, sliding her tongue boldly alongside his. Although she’d been so transported that she felt she should be as limp and wrung out as a dishrag, she was instead energized, wanting more from him - and wanting him to feel as she did. He whispered encouragement against her skin, and she stroked the back of his neck, daring to reach up and touch the dark curls at his nape. They were lovely and soft and she wound a few strands round her fingers, tugging on them by accident.

Sherlock reacted with a grunt, but before she could voice an embarrassed apology, he murmured in her ear, “Do that again.”

Emboldened by his words, she did as he bade and was rewarded by a shudder that wracked his entire frame, causing his shaft to slide against her quinny in a most delightful manner. She shivered, and lifted her head slightly, lips parted in need. Sherlock instantly claimed her mouth with a searing kiss, which she returned with equal passion.

She wanted him. She’d not expected that, to want him so badly, to ache for him to press himself deep inside her, but she did. She truly did, was verily trembling with impatience to feel him inside her. She’d never have believed herself so shameless, but no man had ever made her feel this wanted, this cherished. “Take me,” she begged, widening her legs and lifting her hips. “Please, Sherlock. I need you.”

His response was immediate, his eagerness for their joining as palpable as her own; he shifted his body, reaching down and taking himself in hand. Positioning himself directly over her center, his heated gaze heating her body as warmly as any fire, he said, “What I did for you should make this easier, less painful, and if you keep yourself as relaxed as possible, it’s possible there will be no pain at all, and very little blood.”

Such words should have been like a dash of cold water, but instead Molly felt her desire rising, her body flushing with heat. She rested her hands on his shoulders and was sure to hold his gaze as she nodded. “I will do as you say, Sherlock. I’m ready.”

**oOo**

Sherlock groaned at Molly’s words, at the feel of her beneath his body. He’d expected to have to cajole her into accepting this ultimate joining between them, but had surprised and delighted him by being so bold with him, so accepting of his body. If he could, he would whisk her back to London, keep her by his side as his mistress, never let her out of his sight...but he knew even without voicing that desire that it would be one she’d refuse. And if he sought to purchase her loyalty through promises of safety for her family, she’d see him as no better than her loathsome husband.

Other desires, however, she was eager to grant him; he’d not needed her words to know that. With another soft groan, Sherlock took himself in hand and placed the head of his cock against her center, pressing slowly but steadily until he felt her maiden’s barrier. He pulled back, although it was nearly impossible to do so with Molly’s hands on his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his flesh and her body writhing beneath his.

When she let out a soft whine of disappointment, he kissed her softly. “Gentle, my lovely Molly. I would cause you no harm if I can help it.” He deepened his voice as he pushed back inside her. “Only pleasure.”

A few more strokes, each one slightly harder than the first, and he was through, enveloped within her hot, musky core. She gave a low cry, her body clenching around his before he felt her deliberately relax - her fingers eased their death-grip on his shoulders, and her body softened while she breathed hard through her mouth, eyes tightly shut. When she opened them again and nodded, he began moving, slowly, then slightly faster, then slower again. Women seldom found their pleasure in a first joining, so he’d been told, but he was determined to make this night the most memorable of her life.

With that in mind, he recalled the lessons of a former paramour, a talented courtesan who’d first shown him the secrets of pleasing a woman. As he continued moving with slow, languid strokes, he reached for Molly’s hand, guiding it down between their bodies and silencing her protests with a reassuring kiss. “Touch yourself,” he urged her when the kiss ended. “Have you never done so before, my sweet Molly?”

She blushed prettily at his words. “Tis a sin,” she whispered, yet her hand moved lower.

He smiled his encouragement, resting on his elbows to give her more room, craning his head down to watch as her fingers slid cautiously downward. They came to rest where their bodies were joined, and his breath caught as she slid one down between her folds, seeking the pearl that many swore was only there to tempt women into sin - and many others swore didn’t exist at all.

The sight of her finger pressing against that small nub, of his prick moving in and out of her body, coupled with the soft sighs of her breath as she chased her completion taxed every ounce of his self-control. He longed to thrust deeply into her soft, warm body, to ruthlessly hunt down his own climax, but maintained his slow, steady rhythm. It helped when he closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers.

Molly, however, seemed determined to destroy that self-control, with every breathy gasp she uttered, with every lift of her hips - and when she clutched his hair with her free hand and kissed him, he groaned. “Strewth, woman, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

“Pish, tis only _la petite mort_ ,” she scoffed, smiling as she teased him with his own words. “The little death that one can survive over and over and...ohhhhh!” Her eyes shut tight as the gasp escaped her lips. He very nearly collapsed atop her as he felt her clenching tightly around his straining prick. “Ohhh, that was lovely, oh, _Sherlock_ …”

The sound of his name on her lips, whispered like a prayer, undid him. He sought her lips with urgency, kissing her as if his very life depended on it, his hips moving faster, harder, thrusting into her as she gasped and writhed beneath him. He felt the tightness in his bollocks, the tingling along his spine, and groaned, burying his face in her neck, his fingers wrapped around her chestnut locks, as he spilled inside her.


	6. Revels Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by Prospero's speech from Shakespeare's _The Tempest_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always, lilsherlockian1975, for assuring me this is at least readable!

They lay together afterwards, Molly’s head resting just above his heart while he toyed with her hair. Their other hands were entwined much as their bodies had been - and would be again, did Sherlock have his way. And as king, of course, he often had his way.

Just not when it mattered most.

He huffed in annoyance at himself for allowing his thoughts to range to such bleak territory, feeling Molly tense and start to remove herself from him. Belike she thought his sudden irritation was with her, but he refused to allow such a belief to last more than a single breath. “Stay,” he said, refusing to allow her to pull her hand, her body, or so much as a single strand of hair away.

She subsided, but he could feel the tension straining her body. Casting his wayward thoughts into a mental chest, he bound it with chains of iron, locked it, and thrust it into the darkest recesses of his mind. Once unbound they would come roaring free to plague him tenfold, but he could hold that moment off till after Molly and he were forced to part, and not a moment sooner.

Molly. The one that mattered most, in this moment and, he suspected, in future moments as well. His brother would be disgusted with him for falling prey to sentiment; he could hear him now, within his own mind: _Sentiment, Sherlock? There is no place for such in our lives. So pray do not fancy yourself in love with some lowborn wench after a single night’s bliss; it will only lead to folly._

But this moment was one he was determined to enjoy, and so he pulled her closer, tugging lightly on her hair until she tilted her head up to meet his gaze. Her shy smile was welcoming, but as she shifted her body she winced. “Are you...sore?” he asked, changing his mind at the last instant, holding back the sweet words he’d meant to whisper in her ear.

“It’s nothing,” she tried to assure him, but he frowned and sat up, his eyes cataloging every inch of her exposed body.

There was not much by way of blood, but it was there, hidden beneath the dark curls covering her sex, mixing with his seed smeared at the tops of her thighs.

“Wait for me.”

With that imperious command he sat up and removed himself from the bed. He returned moments later with a small basin of water and some small clothes in one hand,  a pair of goblets in the other, and an uncorked bottle of wine beneath his arm. His mother would have his hide for having forgotten to offer Molly a drink before debauching her...not that she would have approved the debauching, but she would have been far more concerned by his lapse in manners than by his lapse in self-control!

He placed the items one by one on the bed next to her, setting aside the wine and goblets until he’d carefully, gently cleansed her of their mingled fluids. Once finished he wiped his own genitals with far less care, then dropped the used cloths in the water and shoved the basin towards the far side of the bed. Molly accepted her goblet of wine gratefully, sitting up and sipping from it as daintily as any court lady...and with far more grace than some.

He reclined against the pillows as he swallowed a heartier draught of his own wine, enjoying the view of her even with the bedding modestly covering her body. He reached out with one finger, a wicked grin on his lips, and tugged at the furs until her petite figure was fully revealed to him once again. “Come, no need to be shy,” he said, dropping one hand to her thigh and fondling the soft white flesh there. “Not after what we’ve shared...and have yet to share between us,” he added, his voice deepening with undisguised hunger.

She flushed becomingly, settling back on her heels so that he could feast his eyes to his satisfaction. Whilst he watched her, however, she was staring just as frankly at him. He lay with his arms beneath his head, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee with his foot flat on the furs, entirely uncaring of his nudity or even the unaroused state of his manhood. Some men, he knew, refused to allow their lovers or wives to see them at such times, but held no truck with such foolish vanity.

“You’re very beautiful.”

He blinked, not expecting such words from her; _he_ was the one meant to be paying _her_ compliments, was he not?

“But I expect you know that. People - women - must tell you that all the time.”

“Not that exact word, no,” he admitted, reaching out with one hand. “And not only women.”

Before she could ask what he meant - he could see the question in the ‘v’ between her brows - he brought his face to hers, caressing her cheek as he kissed her. He pulled back to better study her, to catalogue the flush in her cheeks, the way her hair and eyes both seemed to catch and hold the candlelight in their depths, the pink-tipped mounds of her breasts, all of her open to his gaze and his to enjoy until the noon meal and the excruciatingly boring hunt to follow.

She wanted him still, in spite of the discomfort all women suffered after their first time with a man, and God knew he wanted her.

He moved over her slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact until he was too close to maintain it...and by then his mouth was on hers. He kept the kiss soft, gentle, teasing her lips with tongue and teeth until he heard her moaning softly. Their clasped hands parted, but only that she might run her fingers along the back of neck, toying with his hair, while he gathered her closer to his body. Arousal rose again between them, hot and heavy as the air before a summer storm.

Their kisses grew fevered, their bodies writhing together until she urged him to join with her, despite whatever lingering discomfort she might feel. He wanted nothing more than to plunge into, to feel her legs wrapped round his waist, but held back, kissing his way down her neck to her breasts, worshipping them with lips and tongue until she arched her back, begging him with her body for more.

He could not resist the desire to taste her again, enjoying the sound of her pleasure as his tongue darted between her folds. Within moments she was more than ready to take him, moisture practically dripping from her body, and he marveled at her responsiveness. She was a wonder, a treasure, and he felt a moment of despair at the thought of having to let her go back to her repulsive husband, but refused to dwell on the future. “Molly,” he said instead, smiling against the warmth of her quinny, feeling her body slicked with sweat beneath his head.

“Sherlock,” she moaned in reply, tugging at his disheveled hair. “Sherlock, please…”

He surged upwards, covering her body with his, fumbling between them in order to place himself at her entrance as he kissed her, an urgent, needy kiss. As he sheathed himself within her for the second time, he let out a sigh of contentment, matched by one of her own, her breath sweet against his lips.

Their pace was faster, more urgent this time, their moans and gasps louder, needier, as if it were the first time they’d joined in this manner, or were lovers long parted and desperate for each other’s touch. For his part Sherlock knew it was the tolling of the midnight bell in the church tower that spurred his frantic pace; the night was half gone, soon it would be morning and time to smuggle his lady-love out of both Appledore and his life...a moment he now wished might never come.

But come it would, all too quickly - much like himself, were he to keep as he was currently going. He forced himself to go slower, to cherish the feel of her beneath his body, but Molly would have none of that. She scratched lightly at his shoulders, tugged at his curls, all modesty abandoned as she cried out for him to move faster, to give more of himself to her.

This time she was the one to reach down, to grasp his hand and press it between their joined bodies. “Touch me,” she begged. “As you had me do for myself before. Please, Sherlock, I want it to be you, please…”

He kissed her, obliging her as he did so by pressing the pad of his thumb ‘gainst her pleasure-pearl, smiling at the way she gasped against his lips, at the way her body seemed to rise to meet his without her consciously willing it so. Her wails of completion were music to his ears, and he held her close as he courteously waited for her trembles to still before once again moving against her body.

She held him close as he increased the pace of his thrusts, kissing him sweetly on the lips whenever he turned his face to hers. He felt himself on the cusp, readied himself to pull out and spill over her belly when the shy press of her tongue against his lips hurled him over the edge. He gasped out a strangled curse, an attempt to say ‘God’s wounds’ that sounded closer to ‘zounds’, and dropped his head to Molly’s shoulder as he emptied his seed within her womb.

_Well_ , he reminded himself silently as he rolled carefully onto his side and held Molly close, _everyone knows it’s nigh impossible to get a woman with child the first time she ever knows a man._

He would just have to remember to be more careful when next they made love. Which, judging by the wincing way Molly moved her legs, was likely not to be till the next day.

Their next time, and aye, just as likely their last. A thought not to be borne.

“Sleep,” he instructed her after using the cold cloths to both clean and soothe her. “Wiggins will be here at first light that we might break our fast together. I need not be forced into Magnussen’s company before noon, and by then you’ll be on your way back to Fitton, to take up the life I so rudely interrupted.” He dropped a soft kiss to her wrist, noting the small shudder she gave at his words, the way she turned her head from his.

“If I were to ask…” he began, unable to stop the words, but she turned to face him, her expression sad but resolute as she shook her head.

“Nay, my lord - Sherlock,” she corrected herself softly. “I have given my word and will not go back on it no matter how distasteful a future I face.” She hesitated, and he saw that she faced some inner struggle. Although it was his nature to discern the causes of inner turmoil in those around him, he held his tongue and waited patiently for her to speak, already knowing that whatever boon she might ask of him, he would gladly grant.

“I have two brothers, Archie and Aldwin, both younger - Archie is seven, Aldwin twelve. They can read and write and do their sums, and are strong and healthy as well…”

He stayed her words with a soft kiss. “I’m sure they’re very paragons of young manhood, Molly, but I need not hear their praises sung to say yes to what you are about to ask me. But,” he added, “I _do_ need you to ask.”

She took in a trembling breath. “I would that they were far from my husband’s reach. My mother will not leave me, knowing what manner of man I’ve wed, but we would both rest easier should we know Archie and Aldwin were safely away. Would you, could you - be willing to take them on, to bring them back to London with you?”

Her breath wasn’t the only thing trembling by the time she finished speaking; both her voice and her entire body shook. He took her into his arms, cradling her close and kissing her eyelids before giving his answer. “I’ll see to it before I leave at week’s end. You have my word.”

Molly’s eyes shone with a combination of gratitude and unshed tears. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched at the formal use of his title, but for this moment she was once again his subject, seeking a favor from her king, and so he refrained from chastising her. Instead he guided her gently into conversation, letting her tell him about boisterous, perpetually curious Archie and quiet, scholarly Aldwin. Eventually her words trailed off and she fell asleep in his arms.

He held her until the morning, when she awoke and allowed him to guide her to the facilities attached to his chamber. They ate the food Wiggins brought, drank the small ale, then bathed in the tepid bathwater provided by a cunning system of pipes modeled after those left by the ancient Roman invaders. Molly was entranced by the sight of water flowing into the copper tub, exclaiming over it and bringing a smile to his face, melancholy though his mood was fast becoming.

Their time together was nearly at an end, and he found himself longing to find excuses to prolong it - and knowing how impossible such a thing would be. They made love for a final time after that, slowly, sweetly, but the inevitable end came and soon it was time to say their farewells.

They were not allowed to do so in private, not with John Watson jiggling impatiently from foot to foot by the door, his cloak held tightly in his hands. Molly would depart as she’d arrived: shrouded in that heavy bolt of cloth, the hood over her face to spare her from prying eyes...although no doubt the gossip from Fitton had arrived at the keep with morning light.

Sherlock took the heavy cloak from John, ignoring the other man’s under-breath muttering of ‘please sire we need to hurry’ and carefully placing the garment over Molly’s shoulders. “John will return you safely home,” he said in a low murmur as he tied a neat bow at her throat.

She nodded, offering a wan smile as he took her hands in his. “I want you to know that I, I wish you as much joy as you can find in your marriage,” she whispered, darting a nervous glance at John.

Sherlock bent down in order to kiss her, uncaring of their lack of privacy. “And I wish the same for you, Molly. Be sure to say your farewells to your brothers before John comes to retrieve them at the end of the week,” he added, not wishing her to worry that he might have forgotten his promise to her.

Her smile this time was brighter, tinged more with relief than sadness. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, gently easing her hands from his and stepping back in order to pull the hood up to hide her neatly braided hair. “Good bye.”

Sherlock watched as she and John slipped away. As Wiggins and a gaggle of other unwanted servants entered his room shortly thereafter to prepare him for the afternoon’s hunt, he could have sworn he felt the weight of the crown settling on his head like the iron burden it was, though it rested still on his bedside table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Zounds’ is actually a late 16th century contraction of ‘God’s wounds’ (i.e., Christ’s wounds while on the cross). I decided Sherlock needed to be ahead of his time.


	7. A Grim Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for taking so long but this chapter decided to bog me down in details. Yes, I'm blaming the story rather than myself. The fantabulous lilsherlockian1975 looked over the first part of it for me but the last bit is unbeta'd and therefore any mistakes are all mine mine mine. Thank you everyone for sticking with the story, and for all your wonderful reviews.

Eighteen months. An entire bally  _year and a half_ had passed since he'd left Appledore, since he'd said his farewells to Molly -  _Mistress Smith_  - and unwillingly asked Magnussen for his daughter's hand in marriage. The first ( _endless, excruciating_ ) four months after that had been taken up with marriage preparations; then the wedding itself and the coronation… Followed, of course, he and Janine's formal consummation of their union ( _produce an heir and quickly, get it over with, but now he was grateful that their couplings had come to naught_ ) and then the bloody French decided to test his patience and his armies with a series of incursions, stopping just short of a full invasion...and now, to top off this very unpleasant period of his reign, the grim spectre of plague had reared its ugly head.

Thus his return to Appledore. Janine and her ladies-in-waiting had fled to her father's keep months ago, fearing the dank air of London, only to find Death waiting for them in the supposedly bucolic countryside. Much to his secret relief he'd received word that both his wife and his father-in-law had fallen victim to the plague, along with nearly the entire household, over the course of only a few weeks. Gone, just like that, and if he were a true Christian, he'd doubtless feel obligated to offer up sincere prayers for their undeserving souls.

The best he could muster was a solemn face as he stood by Sheriff Lestrade's side at the gravesite. Although Magnussen and Janine had died weeks ago, the full funeral had been delayed for his arrival. Not for the sake of the dead, but rather the living - the remaining serfs, vassals, hangers-on and servants who stood silent attendance while the priest droned on and on.

Aye, the formalities had to be observed, and so he suffered silently through the chants and prayers, surveying the attendees through his lashes whenever he could. He needed to gauge their mood - somber, to be sure, but out of true grief, or mere fear of the plague? Nay, more than that - twas clear the future was more on the people's minds than even the recent past. There had been no new victims of the plague since his arrival, although he'd sent out John Watson and others to confirm that while he settled Magnussen's affairs.

The Earl had left no heir, and thus the future of his holdings and the people who served him was literally in the king's hands. Whether he took the lands for the throne or gifted them to some other nobleman mattered naught to these folk, only whether their new liege-lord would be a better master than Magnussen...or, as they no doubt feared, worse.

Sherlock had already determined the answer to that question. But it was not yet time to make the announcement. First, the dead must be honored, pointless as he found that to be, and then he must hear back from his agents as to how badly the people countryside had been ravaged. From what he'd already learned, few villages and farms had been spared - including the town of Fitton. The one place - the one  _person_ \- that mattered to him most.

Molly. Did his Molly yet live? Neither he nor her brothers had heard aught of either her or their mother, other than a few brief notes carried to London by Sheriff Lestrade when estate business took him there. The last such had been from their mother four months prior, claiming all was well and exhorting Archie and Aldwin to be good, to serve faithfully, to say their prayers and learn their lessons.

Was it to be the last word they would ever receive from sister and mother? The boys knew of the sickness sweeping across England, and were anxious to discover the truth for themselves - as was he. Sherlock was determined to keep them by his side until his scouts reported back with their findings, and so they reluctantly remained at Appledore.

If they did not receive news soon, it was possible the two of them would find a way to sneak off on their own...and he could not swear that he wouldn't be far behind them.

**oOo**

John Watson strode into the Great Room without being announced, with the king facing away from him, and yet…

"How bad?" King William, his dearest friend Sherlock, asked without bothering to turn away from the heat of the crackling fire. The strain in his voice was apparent and would doubtless be matched by his expression, were he to allow it to be seen. A strain John misdoubted was due to the burial of his wife and father-in-law earlier in the day.

"Bad enough," John replied grimly, not bothering to question how the king had known it was him. "Hundreds dead, but I can confirm there had been no new victims since we've arrived, God be praised." He knew that was likely due to the stringent cleansing regime Sherlock had instigated for every household, no ever how low or how high, including the use of copious amounts of bleach and vinegar and lye - all at the crown's expense, and all for the kingdom's benefit. "It seems to have run its course, at least on Magnussen's lands."

Sherlock inclined his head, still staring into the massive fireplace as if the dancing flames held the answer to some mystery he wished to solve. "Fitton?"

John knew the question would come sooner or later; it was telling that it was the first place the king named. Very telling. "Hard hit, but not as hard as some," he replied with a shrug as Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Mistress Smith is now the Widow Smith but she is alive and healthy...and so is her child."

That revelation ensured he had Sherlock's full and complete attention. "How old?" he rasped, fingers clenching on the handle of the sword her wore at all times when not in his private chambers in the royal palace. "Boy or girl?"

"A boy, named William in your honour, so I was told by her mother. I've taken the liberty of informing Archie and Aldwin that she lives, and given them leave to visit her," he added before Sherlock could ask. "Mistress Smith and the child are due to return by the morrow."

"Return from where?" Sherlock asked, brow knitting in a frown. The roads were dangerous; now that the plague had run its course in Fitton, she should have no reason for leaving, especially with a babe in tow!

"Her mother said it was guild business. It appears she's taken over her late husband's business dealings, with Guild-Master's Stamford's blessings."

Sherlock waved away that information impatiently, impressed but not surprised that Molly had taken up managing her late husband's affairs herself rather than leaving it to a partner or apprentice. "How old is the boy?" he asked, taking a step forward.

"Nine months," John replied, meeting his gaze squarely. "He has dark curly hair, eyes that can't seem to settle between blue and green...and Mistress Hudson says his lips form a perfect Cupid's bow."

Sherlock's eyes flickered with some web of emotions far too complicated for his friend to interpret. "You say she's due back tomorrow, but at what time?" His days were full; there was much to attend to in the wake of the Earl's death, but nothing mattered him now but Molly. He needed to see her, to see for himself that she and the babe were both well...and to formally acknowledge his son, should she be willing to allow him that honor.

The sound of a throat being cleared caught both his and John's attention; they turned as one to see Sheriff Lestrade standing in the doorway. "Your pardon, Sire," he said, bowing low. "But there is someone here to see you. I, ah, took the liberty of escorting her personally."

He might have said something more, but Sherlock heard nothing but the sudden thundering of his heart in his chest as Lestrade stepped aside…and  _she_  came into the room. Molly. His Molly, looking wan and pale but otherwise much as she had when he'd last seen her. Aye, she'd gained some weight; her curves were more matronly than girlish now that she'd become a mother, but she was still Molly.

The woman he'd somehow managed to fall in love with during a single night of passion.

He was across the room before he realized he'd started moving, eyes only for her and the babe. William. His son – nay,  _their_  son.

"Molly," he breathed as he stopped in front of her.

Her lips curved in a hesitant smile, and she smoothed a curl from her son's forehead before shyly murmuring her condolences for the loss of his wife and father-in-law.

"Yes, yes, very sad," he said impatiently, ignoring the scandalized gasp from Lestrade's lips. "My condolences to you as well on the loss of your husband. Now that we've fulfilled our social requirements, I would very much like to kiss you, Molly."

He ignored the smothered laugh from John and second scandalized gasp from Lestrade, eyes searching Molly's face for some hint that she'd missed him as fiercely as he'd missed her. That she wanted his kiss, that she wouldn't accept it only out of duty.

Her stifled giggle was all the answer he needed, even before she nodded. He was vaguely aware that John was urging Lestrade from the room, that the door was closed behind the two men, and then Molly and little William were in his arms, the babe squalling a bit in indignation, but then her lips were on his and ahhhh, it was as if they'd never been parted.


	8. Fate Intervenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock continue their reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 2 more chapters to go after this one. Thank you everyone for your lovely comments and for continuing to read my stories. <3

Sherlock held the woman he loved in his arms, her lips warm beneath his. It was a moment he would savor for the rest of his days, burned deeply into both mind and heart. A single perfect instant of time where it was just the two of them.

Nay, he thought with a smile as he reluctantly pulled his lips from Molly's, the  _three_ of them. Wee William was still making his displeasure at the close quarters known; his fretful grunts and cries and flailing arms made it impossible for Sherlock to hold Molly as close as he would have liked, yet he knew he would change nothing about this reunion.

Well, perhaps one thing, but it was unlikely God or Fate or Luck - none of which he believed in - would be so kind. The crown still sat heavy on his brow, and he knew it was the one thing that would keep them apart, widow and widower though they now were.

"You will not come to London with me," he said, knowing it was fruitless to ask. He could only bring her there as his mistress, and such a life was not for his Molly.

She shook her head sadly, caramel strands of her hair tumbling free of her modest black cap. "Nay," she replied softly, reaching up with her free hand to cup his cheek. William tracked the movement intently, leaning forward a bit in order to imitate her.

"May I?" Sherlock asked, nodding toward their son, willingly distracted from the bittersweetness that threatened to taint the moment. Molly smiled and handed him to his father. He looked back at her, nose scrunched in uncertainty, and Sherlock felt his heart clench at the sight of his own features on one so small.

"Say hello to your father, William," she said with an encouraging smile. "Your papa. Can you say papa?"

"Surely he's too young to -" Sherlock began to object, only to fall silent at the sound of his son's voice.

"Pa-pa," the babe said, very clearly. He looked back at Molly, touching her cheek with one chubby finger. "Mama."

"He's so clever," Molly said after kissing the finger, which William then promptly put into his mouth. "He's nearly walking already, and he loves to play with little interlocking puzzles made of twigs; he can spend hours just taking them apart and putting them back together. And he seems to be fascinated by bees; I cannot count the times he's set out for the hives behind Mistress Turner's cottage whenever we visit!"

"I've long held an interest in apiary myself," Sherlock confessed with a small chuckle. "Do you take after me in more than looks and inquisitiveness, then?" he said to William.

The babe cocked his head to one side, for all the world as if he understood and was pondering his father's words.

"I acknowledge him," Sherlock said, glancing away from the mesmerizing sight of his son's blue-green eyes - identical to his own - and nodding at Molly. "I will do so publicly before I leave Appledore. You have my word on it."

"And when will that be?" Molly asked, reaching up to stroke a gentle finger along her son's arm as he continued to pat and poke at his father.

"Perhaps a fortnight, no more," Sherlock replied, his voice heavy with regret. "There is much to do, especially since Magnussen left no heir, but there is even more to do in London."

"Now that the plague seems to have finally run its course, thanks be to God," Molly replied with a nod, crossing herself piously. "It is all we have been praying for, and yet I find myself improperly happy that it blighted our land in the first place, since it brought you back to me even for so short a time."

"I feel much the same," Sherlock murmured in reply. He kissed the top of William's forehead before reluctantly handing the boy back to his mother. "May I ask how he - how you both - managed to avoid your husband's fate?"

Molly took a moment to adjust William's small jerkin before answering. "He sent us back to live with my mother when he knew I was with child," she finally answered. William nestled his head against her shoulder. "He - he knew William was yours, as did I because he never once came to our marriage bed. At first I thought it twas some belated courtesy on his part for forcing the wedding in the first place, or for being so willing to send me to you that night, but then I realized the truth."

"He hoped from the start that you would come away with my child," Sherlock finished soberly. "He no doubt had plans to exploit the situation, to bring William to London once it became obvious that the babe was mine and demand some kind of financial compensation." His mouth twisted in a grimace as Molly nodded silent confirmation of his deductions. "Well. At least you were spared his husbandly attentions."

"And his ambitions for William, whatever they were, died with him, praise God." Molly met his gaze squarely. "You know I harbor none of my own? I only wanted you to see him, to know that our single night together bound us with more than mere physical pleasure."

"Ah, but we both it was more than that even before we knew we'd conceived a son," Sherlock replied, bending down to kiss her again. "I would that things were different, Molly."

He hesitated before speaking again; their previous union had been sanctioned, if only barely, by the ancient tradition of  _jus prima noctis_ , but they would have no such excuse to hide behind this time were they to take up with each other once again. If he asked her to stay with him, in his chambers here at Appledore, even for a single night, there would be gossip. Her reputation would be stained, possibly beyond redemption, and she could lose the status she'd gained as Smith's successor.

And yet he could no more hold back the words than he could stem the tides. "Stay with me, Molly. You and William. Just for tonight."

He saw the conflict in her eyes, and felt resignation settle in his chest before she ever opened her lips to speak, her answer writ clearly on her features. "I cannot," she whispered, holding William close and half-turning from him. "Please, I beg of you, do not ask me a second time."

Because if he did, she would say yes. They would take their desperate pleasure of one another, but in the morning would come the regrets. Those regrets would settle like a poison on her soul until she came to resent both herself and him for their mutual weakness.

He was a selfish man, but he was not so selfish as that.

He took a formal step backwards, his posture straightening, his expression turning aloof as he forcibly took on his public persona in front of the one woman he least wished to show it to. "I will not," he said crisply, offering a half-bow. "Bring William back to Appledore in two week's time that I might publicly acknowledge him before taking my leave. When he is of age, he will join me in London to take on the responsibilities and duties of the royal heir."

Molly's eyes widened in dismay. "That, that will surely not be necessary," she stammered out. "You will marry again, have legitimate children…"

"I will not marry again," Sherlock replied in a tone that brooked no argument. "I did so only under pressure to produce an heir; having performed that royal duty, I will not take another wife I do not love."

"Then perhaps you should take a wife that you  _do_ love."

That voice...impossible. Sherlock whirled to face the now-opened door, automatically pulling Molly and William behind him as he drew his sword. He had no belief in the supernatural, yet felt a chill course the length of his spine as he beheld what could only be a specter.

"Mycroft?" he gasped.


	9. Short Version: Not Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who's been reading and commenting, it means the world. Only one chapter left to go after this one, enjoy!

The point of his sword dropped toward the floor as he took in the impossible sight before his eyes.

His brother. Older. Greyer. Unkempt beard and hair. Ragged, filthy clothing. The stench of an unwashed body. Stoop-shouldered, leaning on a walking-stick that clearly was not for show. Thin - by God, so unbelievably thin and gaunt.

Yet unmistakably him.

Edward George Mycroft, Rightful King of England, alive and, and...not dead.

Behind him he heard Molly suck in a breath, heard the movement of fabric as she fell into an awkward curtsey at the realization of who the bedraggled man standing before them must be. He released his hold on her, resheathed his sword, eyes only for his brother. Molly and William must fend for themselves in this fraught moment whilst he puzzled out the how and the why of it.

"How?" His eyes flickered to the two men flanking his brother - Lestrade and the castellan, one of the few surviving servants.

The castellan answered nervously. "His lordship the Earl had a prisoner, we all knew of it, but we had no idea who it was - you must believe me in that!"

Sherlock's towering fury was not enough to obscure his observational skills; the man did indeed speak the truth, was not simply trying to save his own wretched hide. "How did this come about?" he asked Mycroft. "I saw your body on the battlefield...Oh!" he interrupted himself, eyes widening as he recalled that horrid day in its every detail. "Your man Fortescue, he donned your armour - to save your life? - and took your place! The blow to your - his - face obscured enough of your features that I mistook him for you, damn my eyes!"

"It was not my wish to do so, but we were set upon by some of the Earl's men. They were the ones who killed Fortescue after forcing us to exchange clothing." A shadow crossed Mycroft's face, barely noticeable to one who knew him less well, but to Sherlock's sharp eyes it was as eloquent as if his brother had dropped to his knees and begun wailing in grief and anger. Fortescue had been Mycroft's closest confidant as well as occasional body double since the two were boys with Sherlock merely an annoyance toddling after them.

Without thinking, Sherlock stepped forward. Reached out. Grasped his brother - gently, ever so gently - by the upper arms. Confirming with touch what his other senses had already proven to be true.

Mycroft was alive, if not entirely well. No mere hallucination or fancy of the mind, but real and solid and alive.

Looking deeply into his eyes, Sherlock said the only thing that could be said after so many years apart. "Had I known that faking one's death in order to avoid the burden of the crown was so simple to manage, I'd have done so myself when still a child."

Although the others drew in their breaths in shock, Mycroft replied with a soft laugh. "Yes, well, I can't recommend an extended stay in Appledore's dungeons, but should you choose to fake your death at some time in future I would be happy to oblige you." His eyes focused on a point just beyond Sherlock's right shoulder - Molly and William. "In fact, if you'd care to abdicate your throne, brother mine, I feel certain you will find welcome elsewhere. Perhaps a country manor and holdings that include properties with beehives?"

Sherlock began to drop to one knee, mouth opened to speak the formal words of renunciation, only to be stayed by his brother's weakened grasp. "Softy," Mycroft counseled as he returned his attention to his younger brother. "Let us be certain I will recover enough to govern this fair land of ours first. I apologize for the delay," he added, speaking directly to Molly for the first time. "Be but patient a little longer, my dear, and I promise you and your son will yet be reunited with my brother in a more permanent fashion than I fancy either of you have imagined possible."

Sherlock knew Molly had dipped her head in acknowledgement of Mycroft's words, could hear the short, dissatisfied squawk of annoyance William gave at the movement. He turned and held out his arms; Molly handed their son to him, her eyes full of wonder, and he turned back to present William to his uncle.

"Er, yes," Mycroft said, somewhat awkwardly. "You've done very well, William. He looks to be...very fully functioning."

Sherlock smiled, then grinned, then laughed aloud. Mycroft's years of imprisonment hadn't changed him at all, and he knew in that very moment that he and Molly would, indeed, one day soon be wed.

**oOo**

Molly could hardly credit how, yet again, her life had been turned topsy-turvy.

It was scarce to be credited, that King George (Mycroft?) had been kept alive this entire time, one of Appledore's many unknown secrets, a prisoner of Lord Magnussen. It was as if God had plucked her most secret desire from her heart and presented it to her in a chalice of solid gold. If King George's health would allow it, he would take back the crown that his brother had so unwillingly borne all these many years; Sherlock would be free to marry whom he wished - or would he?

Her heart clutched with a sudden fear. What if the king only meant that he would allow Sherlock to keep her as his mistress? He knew nothing of her life, how abhorrent such a thought would be to her; there were far too many women - and their families - who would embrace such an opportunity with arms wide open. She would lose her place in the community, so hard-earned after her husband's death; William would be taken to court to be raised…

The growing panic in her heart was silenced by a soft whisper in her ear. "Hush, Molly, my brother sees far more clearly than you credit him," Sherlock murmured. "It is not as my mistress that he perceives you, and it is not as my mistress that he intends to consign your fate. Trust me, if you do not yet know him well enough to trust him."

Molly drew in a shaky breath, met Sherlock's piercing gaze, and managed a small nod. Her heart still pounded in her chest, but the panic that had been rising had subsided some small amount with his words.

He dropped a small kiss to her cheek, squeezed her arm, and handed William back to her. "My brother needs a bath, a hot meal, and a barber," he said crisply as he returned to the matter at hand. "Arrange suitable chambers for Mistress Smith and her son, and summon Sir John back to the castle at once." Then he cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Shall I request a litter as well, or can you manage the stairs?"

Mycroft drew himself up as tall as he could, and the look he gave his brother might have felled a lesser man with its chilly disdain. "I managed the stairs from that horrid prison, brother mine; I fail to see how the stairs to the earl's former bedchamber can pose much in the way of an impediment."

The men, accompanied by Sheriff Lestrade and two of the king's guards, slowly left the room. Sherlock spared a moment to send her a single look over his shoulder, and she managed a brave smile as they disappeared from view, leaving her and William alone for the nonce.

"Well, my sweet boy," she murmured to her son as he allowed her to cradle him to her bosom, "it seems the future mapped out for you is not yet determined. Let us hope that things work out as your father and I both hope they will."


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. I hope you enjoy this last little glimpse into Sherlock and Molly's life in the Middle Ages.

**Appledore, Five Years Later**

“They’ve arrived, my lord!”

Fourteen-year-old Archie could scarce contain his excitement as he made his announcement. Six years’ training and service had done little to repress his naturally exuberant personality. Nor would any who knew and loved him have it any other way.

His elder brother Aldwin entered the Great Hall at a more sedate pace, as befit his status as a newly-wed man with his first child on the way. His marriage had been arranged within a year of his eighteenth birthday, but it was obvious to all who saw him and his wife Rosamund together that it was a love match, indeed.

The lord of Appledore smiled fondly at his two liege-men as they came to a stop in front of him and bowed. The past six years had been in turn tumultuous, disastrous, and prosperous to not only himself but his family and, yea, all of England. He prayed that the prosperity and peace would continue indefinitely, but the cursed French were ever champing at the bit to take the British Isles for their own, and he knew his days of quiet country life would eventually come to an end.

But not today. With a glad smile, Sir John of Appledore rose to his feet, as did his beloved wife Mary. They stepped down from the raised dais and their interrupted noon meal, as eager as Archie and Aldwin to greet their guests.

Six-year-old William was the first to enter, barreling enthusiastically into his Uncle Archie’s arms while Aldwin stood aside and pretended not to be affected. His twitching lips gave him away, however, and his smile could not be hidden as his sister and her husband entered the room.

“My lord,” John said with a bow as Sherlock approached him.

“John,” his friend replied, grinning and clasping his forearms in greeting. “You’re looking well. You’ve put on, what, four pounds since my last visit?”

“Two and a half,” John muttered in response, exasperated and amused all at once. A familiar feeling when it came to the former King.

“Mm, Mary and I think four,” Sherlock replied blandly, even as he bent down to kiss Mary on her cheek. She dimpled up at him, very careful not to look at her husband as she did so. The better not to be seen laughing at him, he thought grumpily. But the touch of her hand on his brought him out of his temporary sourness.

“You never change,” he merely said to Sherlock, not-so-secretly envious that married life hadn’t thickened his friend’s waistline. Ah, but give it time…

With an unfeigned smiled he took Molly’s hands in his and kissed her cheek. “You’re looking well, my lady.”

“Pfft, enough with the formalities,” Sherlock interrupted. “No more of this ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ claptrap. Molly and Sherlock will do just fine, as always.” He glanced around the Great Hall, his keen eyes taking in details that John knew he himself would never notice. “So where are the rest of your tedious offspring, hmm? We’ve seen Rosamund, very wise to allow her to stay at home rather than force her into this drafty keep when her time is so near. Aldwin!” he bellowed suddenly, causing his brother-in-law to pale and start a bit before obediently stepping forward. “You’ve done your duty. Go home to your wife. Molly will visit as soon as we are settled in.”

The eldest of his two brothers-in-law gave a jerky bow, hurried over to press a quick kiss to Molly’s cheek, then sped out of the room without a further glance backward.

“He’s insisting on being there for birth,” John commented with a frown. “I’ve no idea where he gets such peculiar notions.”

Mary arched an eyebrow. “From his very peculiar brother-in-law, no doubt,” she replied with a knowing grin at Molly. “Did you not say in your last letter that he intended to be there for your own child’s birth in five month’s time?”

Molly blushed, but nodded and smiled up at her husband, the once and former King of England. “Indeed he did,” she said softly. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “And indeed, I shall allow it. My mother will be scandalized, but she is quite used to being scandalized by my dear husband by now.”

“She won’t allow William to be there, however,” Sherlock added with a small frown as he lowered her hand from his lips...but not, Mary and John both noted with private satisfaction, releasing his clasp. “I told her it would be an important learning experience…”

“And I told him,” Molly interrupted firmly, “that I do not wish to have my entire family gawping at me whilst I am in the middle of giving birth. You may tell him of the experience afterwards, perhaps, but the only people I will allow in that room will be the midwife, my mother, and you, husband.”

The talk soon became more general, much to John’s secret relief; he was far from squeamish, but such talk made his stomach slightly queasy.

Still, he could be nothing but happy for his friend and former King; he seemed to have shed years the moment he’d shed the crown he’d so gladly abdicated to his brother. King Edward was back in robust health, the shocked nation had rejoiced at his miraculous return from the dead, and now Molly and Sherlock were finally adding to the family they’d started with little William.

As Mary took his arm and they escorted their friends to their chambers, he could not help but feel well contented with how their mutual lives had all turned out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for comments and encouragement!


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